Barkeep
by doodle808
Summary: In light of recent events, Desmond decided that being a bartender wasn't one of the brightest ideas he'd pushed for. The welcoming committee obviously held no concept of personal space. Slash.


This is more or less a hesitant one-shot. I'm just testing the waters to see where my writing skills level out, but I had fun writing this. I am an avid fan of the Assassin's Creed series and I fell in love with the characters. I wanted to see how everyone would interact with each other when placed in this modern-ish AU. There will be major and minor OOC issues, mainly with Desmond. I feel that Desmond is a lot smarter than he let's on, but his general brashness and hiding from the Templars for most of his adult life overshadows this. Here, he'll be more tactful and calculating, and I wanted to see how things go. Oh, and I guess there's the warnings of violence and homosexuality. There isn't any concrete pairing yet.

Disclaimer: I don't own.

* * *

It had taken over half a year's worth of odd jobs and a generous Shaun, but Desmond Miles was finally working on the other side of the counter. Well, not quite yet. Even after his purchase, he still needed to refurbish (read: buy tables and stools), restock his meager supplies, and get the word out, but he was still quite pleased with himself.

It certainly helped that the part-time realtor knew his way around the city. It was a little off the beaten path, but close enough to the traffic hubs where it was easy to spot the open bar with a few minutes of walking. Plus, crime rates were said to be exceptionally low. It was good to be friends with Hastings. Even if the man would vehemently deny having any relation to such a "barbaric hooligan."

And so it left Desmond with little to do but pat himself on the back when the last of the boxes, shipments, and plastic-covered barstools were set away for the evening.

There would be a gentle lull in traffic around this time, leaving the clattering of shoes on pavement behind. The district was actually more appropriate for several middle-income residential buildings, but a few stores and restaurants fit right in. Why not a bar?

Yes, life was good.

Or at least he would be telling himself this, if it wasn't for the resounding crash of glass to his left. The aforementioned glass being the former window to his new bar. The window that took him two afternoons to install and paint over. When he looked back to that incident, the barman could distinctly remember his eye twitching.

Desmond was nearly too beside himself to notice the men that shattered his window had also slammed into two of _his_ new tables and scuffed up _his_ shiny floors with the dirt from outside. Horrified, the bartender could only watch as they traded blows across overturned stools and smeared blood that would probably _stain_ his walls until they exited the waylaid bar through the now very open window and back onto the street.

One of the men threw the other into the sidewalk before dashing off, a small but noticeable brown package under his right arm. The man on the ground lifted himself up before shouting at the top of his lungs, "Yeah, you better run!"

Desmond wondered why the row didn't attract more attention.

The disheveled man quickly shifted his gaze to the barman, forcing his shoulders to relax into something less threatening and giving him a toothy grin. It was hardly a decent first impression.

"Hey, sorry about the mess."

However, Desmond was not mad. Nor irked, nor upset, nor bloodthirsty.

"Me and my associates can pay you anything that got smashed up."

He wasn't even grinding his teeth or clenching his fists. Though, the developing headache he could do without.

"Really, it was totally by accident and––"

"Two hundred twenty dollars and twenty-six cents."

"What?"

And that twitch was back.

"The window cost forty ninety-five. The scuffed and splintered tables and stools can be refunded, but will cost thirty-seven forty-two for removal and shipping. The paintjobs to cover the bloodstains, because _those_ stains are never coming out, will be thirty-three ten. The floors will need cleaning supplies, fifteen sixty-five. The broken bottles will total sixty-three fourteen. Add in the pain and suffering, and we total two hundred twenty dollars and twenty-six cents."

Desmond summarily booted the slack-jawed fellow out past the threshold without warning. From the colorful expletives, he decided the trespasser was likely Italian.

He knew that such a display would likely be more trouble than what it was worth, but having his blood, sweat, weekend afternoons, and paychecks get _stepped all over_ really didn't help with his social tact.

They had it coming to them anyhow. Without checking to see where the man would go, Desmond quickly turned back and closed the door behind him.

For the moment, he took a few minutes to collect his thoughts and managed a weary glance at the massacre that was once his readied bar. It really was a shame, but there was as the saying goes little point in crying over spilt milk. Even if the puddles of alcohol ate a decent sized chunk out of his savings.

Nevertheless, the man took charge and took quick steps into righting some of the chaos. The damaged tables and stools would be set in the corners for the lift later that week. The floors and walls would be prepped for cleaning and covering. And the glass. Oh, the glass would need a broom and heavy-set bags for the curb. Not a pleasant late afternoon schedule at all.

At least the bottles were still intact, if not half-empty. That would have surely broken Desmond's heart.

The man though never lagged behind or sat down to rest. He was quick, efficient, and determined to fix up his bar at soon as possible. It wasn't until the second glass filled bag currently occupied the sidewalk that Desmond realized something.

There was no guarantee that the strange man would keep his promise. Heck, there wasn't any assurance in the matter at all. There was no guarantee that anything would be paid for and that left Desmond a little more out of sorts. Surely there would be consequences, no?

A brisk walk to the nearest payphone and two quarters less had Desmond talking to another friend of his.

"Hello and thank you for calling––"

"Lucy."

"Desmond! What a surprise. How's it going?" she asked.

"Not very well, I'm afraid," Desmond said. "It seems that the place Shaun had picked out had more gang activity than I would have thought."

"Oh God, are you injured? Do you need a ride or something?" Lucy asked, concern in her voice.

"No, no. I'm safe as could be for the moment, but I can't say the same for the bar."

"How much?"

"Over two hundred, but what I'm worried about is if the bar becomes targeted. It would be terrible for business."

"I'll be over in a bit to check things out. Do you want Rebecca to come over, too?"

"No, she has a lot on her hands. I don't want to put too much of a burden on her. She hasn't even graduated yet. Becca has a lot going for her, and this kind of business wouldn't do her any good."

"Alright, I'll be over in ten."

After a quick goodbye, Desmond hung up and exited the booth.

The sun was peaking behind the clouds and night was rolling in by the time Lucy's car pulled up into the stalls near the bar. The two made readjustments where they could, but it was obvious that Desmond's estimations were as close as could be. It could have been worse, much worse in fact.

Since the window was blown wide open, the two friends placed everything worth anything behind in storage so no one would try running off with something. The tables and stools would be chained together in bulk.

"Watch your back, Des," Lucy warned.

"I know," Desmond replied. "I promise to be careful. Do you need anything, by the way?"

"No, I have enough to last the next party. Which I assume you'll chaperone for?"

"Obviously. No one can mix like I can."

The pair laughed as they exited the bar and Desmond locked the door. Lucy left, the lot's gravel crunching beneath her car's tires. The barman sighed into the night before heading off to the nearest bus terminal. Subways weren't really his kind of transport. People would shove past others, and the underground smelled like something died down there. Which was likely true.

Waiting for the bus gave Desmond some time to mull over things. The bar's opening would likely be postponed a week at the least. And the unwanted attention would only ruin his reputation. He frowned in consternation until the bus arrived.

The ride itself was uneventful, and Desmond was grateful for the relative silence. He closed his eyes and rubbed away some of the stress that built up between his shoulders. The bus then slowed to let another passenger on, and then the vehicle moved forward again.

After five minutes of calm, the bus system's drone of Desmond's stop broke his half-sleep and he was up and out of his seat. The flight of stairs and heavy locks on his apartment door barely registered, but the clinging of spare change in his haphazardly thrown coat jacket on the floor caught his attention.

Desmond never used coins.

Shuffling through his coat pockets, he discovered an innocent white envelope. Inside, Desmond discovered several crisp bank notes and coins totaling the two hundred twenty dollars and twenty-six cents that were owed to him.

Then there was the letter. It was an apology letter, which normally would have been comforting. If it wasn't for how _detailed_ it was.

_To Desmond Miles:_

_It has come to Our attention that a recent altercation at your establishment has done great damage to your business and person. It is not within Our rights to presume innocence in this, so we leave you with the specified donation for repairs and Our most sincere apologies. The offending party member has been properly reprimanded and he also would like to extend his most sincere apologies._

_We hope through this, we may properly settle this unfortunate event. If not, then in time._

_If there is further cause for concern for the other party that had caused harm to your business and person, do not be alarmed. They are of a separate entity that does not hold the same level of societal conduct and etiquette that We do. Through this, know that Our enemies will not seek you, your business, and your associates out in any form of retaliation._

_Formally,_

_The Order._

Desmond read it over and over again. His body shaking just a little bit harder. How did this get here?

Checking to see his home was _not_ housing any uninvited guests, he locked the other doors and closed the blinds on his windows. Rushing to his bedroom, he threw the offending letter and money on his desk and whipped out his phone.

The only louder sound than the cellular ring tones on Lucy's number was Desmond's furiously beating heart. He was less than paranoid, but definitely more than worried.

He was however not stupid. He made sure to calmly (as possible) ask if she was alright. If Shaun and Rebecca were safe, and if no one had followed her home that night. It was dark, and Desmond didn't put it passed him to think that she could have a stalker.

But they were safe and sound, and Desmond heaved a sigh of relief. It was just him apparently.

He ended the call with a shaky but pleasant goodnight and looked back at the sheets of paper on his desk forlornly. He made sure to check the rest of his person to see if anything else was stuck to his clothes by some unknown stalker. He checked the pockets, the hood, even his hair, but nothing. It was just the apology letter.

Which wasn't really an apology so much as it was an intimidation tactic. Sure they paid for it speedily, but they _knew his name_. In less than two hours, even! Then there were the threats laced into the letter, which didn't settle with Desmond well. He tried to remain inconspicuous at times, but he never rolled over for anyone.

Survival probably trumped his pride though. And he would probably be forced to concede to whatever they wanted. He hoped it wouldn't be like those turf wars on the West Coast. Desmond didn't think he could afford to give them a piece of his profits for some "protection" or whatever.

But then again, if they could hide an envelope of that size weighed down with legal tender and coins without him noticing, they would likely be capable of much more.

Instead of worrying about his life, Desmond immediately drowned his anxieties with a hot shower and promptly fell asleep beneath his comforter. It was late at night and he still have to go to work tomorrow. Even if that work included phoning the furniture company, buying cleaning supplies, and ordering a new windowpane.

Desmond had a fitful dream of expensive wine bottles and crazy Italian letter runners.

The next morning, Desmond found himself juggling the phone and two pieces of slightly burned toast. He finally got the appropriate number of replacement tables and stools and was next busying himself with some butter and coffee.

It was a wonderful surprise that everything went so smoothly. There was almost no waiting time between "How may I help you?" and "Please hold" for any of his orders. After half an hour, Desmond left his apartment to go back to clean his bar.

The next five days were filled with moving, scrubbing, painting, installing, and the general bustle. Desmond called over his friends to celebrate an early opening later that night. The bar was supposed to begin the next day, but this was a special event for just the four of them.

"Hey, Des," Lucy called. "Can I have another of that sweet one you made?"

"C'mon Lucy," a woman with dark hair said. "We all know how you handle your alcohol. With slurring and drunken stupors."

"I do not! Take that back, Becca."

"Yeah," the bartender agreed. "You kind of do, Lucy."

"Hey, what kind of a bartender are you? The customer's always right."

"I'd like another Heineken, Mr. Bartender. If you wouldn't mind," the Briton interrupted. He leaned forward to escape the half-glare he received from the blonde.

"Right away, Mr. History Major."

"See!" Lucy exclaimed. "Don't you see this favoritism, Becca? Why does Shaun get his drinks and I end up with nothing?"

"Because you're a sloppy drunk. That's why," Rebecca said.

"Here, here," the other men replied.

"You guys are no fun," bemoaned Lucy. She was still staring at her empty glass.

"Do remember you can all come back tomorrow. And the next day and the next," said Desmond, a small smile creeping up on him. He loved these small moments of friendly banter.

"Yes! I love you, Des!" Lucy exclaimed, failing to wrap the barman in a hug.

"Just don't try to run off without paying. I don't take IOUs."

"But what about Shaun? He never pays," Rebecca chimed. She couldn't help roping the recluse back into the conversation. It would do him good to exercise his social muscles.

"Desmond still owes me for my expertise," Shaun said with a grin.

"I know, I know," Desmond agreed before his eyes narrowed with concern. "Anyway, how is everything? Nothing out of the ordinary?"

"No, there aren't any shady dealings or missing persons I can think of."

"Nothing around me either. The campus is pretty clean."

"All clear at my place, too. My coworkers are a bunch of American slobs though."

"That's a relief," said Desmond. He truly was happy none of them was targeted. They were basically his only family.

The conversation lightened up after that, changing from math homework to business associates to the state's political climate. It was a little after ten that the three bid their farewells to their friend before hoping into Lucy's car with Rebecca as their designated driver.

Desmond spent the next ten minutes cleaning the counter and setting everything back into sorts, humming to himself. It helped pass the time, especially when he was wiping glasses. Making them shine was more of a creature comfort than a necessity.

When a man wearing a thick coat with the hood up entered his bar, Desmond mentally smacked himself for forgetting to lock up.

"Sorry sir, but the bar officially opens tomorrow at six pm."

"Oh? The lights were on, and I thought it was alright to come in. It's rather cold out."

His voice was a deep tenor with a nameless accent and Desmond felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The bartender just realized that he didn't have any form of a weapon on him.

Without any regard, the man sat down in front.

"If I could trouble you for a glass of water? My throat is parched and I'll gladly pay."

Desmond couldn't help but do as he asked. His hands moved to fill a clean cup and placed an ice cube for good measure.

"Here you are, sir."

"Thank you."

The man did not touch his drink though. He was completely focused on Desmond, who by now was beginning to inch towards the door. He didn't know who this guy was, but he wasn't going to wait to find out.

"How much does this cost?"

Desmond froze, his heart clenching horribly inside his chest.

"It's on the house."

"That's quite generous of you…"

"Desmond Miles. Sorry, I didn't wear my nametag."

"Then here's to a successful business venture, Mr. Miles." The stranger tipped the glass and downed the water in a smooth gulp, the ice clinking on the bottom. He returned the glass, and quietly left. The only sound he made was the click of the doorknob on his way out.

Desmond was petrified to say the least. He never quite experienced anything so thoroughly deadly as that quiet individual. He could see the purpose in his steps, the careful movements in his hand motions. The sharp finality in each word he spoke. It captured his undivided attention and never let go.

Desmond was unsure if he felt threatened or turned on. Probably a bit of both.

Ezio Auditore was thoroughly amused by the man behind the counter, completely enthralled with the bar's opening the next night. So many possibilities.


End file.
